Forced Smiles
by Emmeebee
Summary: Priscilla Rosier's path diverged from Tom Riddle's when he took the job at Borgin and Burkes and turned his focus to building his underground empire. Her role was to tactfully rally the purebloods to the cause while pretending that she no longer loved him. However, his legacy refuses to leave her alone. A companion piece to The Evolution of a Name.


A/N: Written for the Harry Potter Day Competition 2015 for the Dark Lord and Co Category and the Not a Bad Word Count Category.

This is a short companion piece to The Evolution of a Name. Priscilla Nott was essentially a sidenote in that story, but I wanted to explore the trajectory her life took between the day she and Tom Riddle decided to publicly part ways and the day he became corporeal again.

Thank you to my wonderful brother for beta reading this for me.

Word count: 2103

* * *

 _ **1 August 1946**_

Nott Manor looked like it was right out of a fairy tale. Positioned on the top of a gently sloping hill, it overlooked a gorgeous oasis of flowers, ponds and paddocks. Twin falcon sculptures stood guard at the entry to the estate, giving the appearance that they were observing and monitoring all visitors. A cobbled pathway twisted its way up the knoll until it diverged into two paths, one heading to the stables while the other ended at the front door of the elaborate bricked manor. Bordering it was two lines of flowerbeds, each containing an assortment of flowers that gradually darkened in hue from pure white to vibrant purple to aubergine. Many other purebloods had chosen to modernise the aesthetics of their estate, but Nott Manor itself still looked like an impeccably preserved manor from the 1700s.

As the guests arrived that day, it looked even more impeccable than usual. All involved in the planning process knew that it would be the society event of the year and had worked hard to ensure that everything looked and went perfectly. Drivers spent the morning transporting guests from the entrance gate to the front door and then looping back around so that the carriage was available for the next arrivals. Most of the attendees were from similarly high-status families and so were used to such pomp and circumstance, but it was still a treat for them to enjoy the stunning views as the horses ambled along the pathway.

If the manor was a fairy-tale castle, Priscilla Rosier was its princess. Her family house-elf had waited on her all morning, painstakingly teasing out, pinning up and accessorising her dark brown hair until it resided in a sleek up-do interwoven with lavender flowers and tiny sparkling diamonds. The process had been a slow one but, as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, she decided that it had been more than worth it.

"You look beautiful," her mother told her. "Just make sure you remember to smile, dear."

"Of course I will. He is a wonderful wizard, and I am glad to be marrying him." Her lips spread into a smooth and beatific smile as proof of her claim. Smiling wasn't her natural state of being, so she'd grown adept at faking one at a moment's notice. That would serve her well that day. Nobody was expecting joy or uncontrollable excitement but, while they wouldn't think twice if she looked nervous or merely politely sociable, they would all be critical if she appeared unhappy or strained.

Later, as she walked down the aisle with her father, she considered the situation in which she'd found herself. Pureblood marriages were extremely political and were often arranged. She'd known since she was young that she would not have a wide range of options to choose between; when you're from that influential a family, you have few real contemporaries. And her groom was actually quite decent. Had she not fallen for Tom Riddle, she would have been rather optimistic about this arrangement. As it was, however, her eyes sought out her ex-boyfriend, who, she noted, was looking utterly debonair in his dress robes.

She had expected an arranged marriage. She just hadn't expected her marriage to be orchestrated by the man she really wanted to be marrying.

As her father passed her hand to Terrence Nott, both physically and symbolically, she forced that smile of hers. Her feelings weren't important at the moment; the important thing was getting through the day intact.

And if that meant picturing Tom Riddle as she said her vows, well, nobody would be any the wiser anyway.

-f-s-

 _ **1 October 1981**_

The day Tom Riddle died broke her heart. The entire point of her marriage had been to enable his rise to power. He and his Death Eaters were supposed to terrorise people into submission from their place at the outskirts of society while she influenced and shaped people's views from its inner circle; essentially, they worked the stick while she controlled the carrot. She had observed her role and tasks; pro-pureblood laws had been retained while pro-mudblood bills had been scrapped, information had been acquired and smuggled out, and potential supporters had been sent Tom's way. Tom had been succeeding as well. Wizarding Britain had been so terrified of him, and people had known that his arrival on their doorstep meant they had to either swear allegiance to him or die.

Halloween was supposed to have been his coup-de-grace, his swift victory over the only wizard to have the chance of ever truly challenging him. It was supposed to have been a day worthy of celebration. Something had happened, however, and now it felt like everybody was celebrating except for her. Wizarding Britain rejoiced while she mourned, and the worst part was that she had to pretend that it wasn't killing her inside. She had to talk and laugh as if she hadn't a care in the world, as if the news of his death had somehow elated her. It had been politically dangerous to publicly align oneself with the insurgent group while they were gaining power, and it would be socially fatal to do so now. Her efforts might not have reached fruition, but she wasn't going to give up now. Tom Riddle hadn't bought her allegiance with his flattering charm and heady kisses; she had believed in his vision and, as a result of that, in him.

So, instead of shutting herself into her bedchambers so that she could be alone with her grief and her tears, she made an appearance at one of the impromptu street parties. Standing alongside her husband, she forced herself to smile in a show of contentment, even if joy was too much for her to conjure.

"Good day, Bobbins! It's such a relief, isn't it? It makes even a day as miserable as this look stunning!" her husband said to one of the common folk, working as hard as he could to disassociate them with her once-lover. With muted stirrings of amusement, she noted that both his mannerisms and word choices had changed in his attempt to ingratiate himself with this commoner.

"Er – "

"Oh, pardon me! You think we were with him. It's alright; I don't blame you for that. Everyone did, you know. We had to pretend every day of our lives; he was alright with us remaining neutral, you see, but he would have struck if we'd done anything to draw attention to ourselves."

"Good evening, Mother. Isn't it such a fantastic day?" The familiar voice sounded excited, but she could hear the sardonic tint hiding within it. Smiling genuinely now, she turned to face her oldest son; he didn't know the full extent of matters, but he was one of the few people who actually understood what she was going through.

As she saw him for the first time since seeing the news, however, her expression darkened. She had grown so accustomed to his face over the past twenty-nine years that the similarities had become almost commonplace to her; now, however, the prominent cheekbones, thin face and exact shade of his brown eyes was as noticeable as they were on the warm March day he was born.

"Mother?" he asked, stepping forward in concern.

She shook her head before, as if just out of a trance, smiling broadly once again. "It really is," she agreed.

-f-s-

 _ **20 August 1992**_

Healers, protected by an intricate layering of spells that prevented them from catching anything infectious, bustled around the hospital ward. When she had first been admitted, she had expected a completely isolated room like the ones she'd occupied when she was pregnant; the disease was becoming something of an epidemic, however, and the healers had decided to localise infected patients in one of the more open wards so that there would be room for growth. The constant activity had been irksome at first – really, did _nobody_ respect privacy anymore? – but she had quickly grown desensitised to it. After all, the only other option would have been to spend what could very possibly be the last few days of her life in a state of constant frustration, and that didn't exactly appeal to her. If she had to face her mortality, she wanted to do it with unflappable dignity and serenity.

Mortality. Had Tom's plans worked, they would have both been immortal, and she wouldn't be lying in a quarantine zone at St Mungo's as she wasted away from dragon pox. Had his plans worked, a lot of things would have been different.

Her family had been in and out of the hospital to see her. Visitation wasn't advisable, but they had put up the same defences as the healers had and had refused to debate the matter. Ultimately, the healers had realised that protests were futile and had decided to let them be.

Henry and his children were the ones visiting her that day. The girls were due to leave for Durmstrang in less than a fortnight, so they'd been visiting more frequently in the lead-up. That morning, however, she had made certain to request their presence. After chatting with her about their lives and mocking the dreary monotony of the ward, they left to see if they could find anything resembling a decent lunch, leaving her alone with her son. Henry tossed the newspaper he'd been perusing aside as soon as the doors had swung shut behind them. "Now we can actually talk, eh?"

Priscilla narrowed her eyes at him reprovingly. "I don't know where you picked up language like that, because I'm certain that neither your father nor I raised you to speak like some baseborn commoner."

To her frustration, her – she had to admit, even to herself, favourite – son merely laughed. "It's merely a part of blending into different contexts, Mother."

"As long as it stays that way," she warned him.

"Linguistic register aside, there were some things I wanted to discuss with you while the girls were gone."

"I knew it was peculiar that they seemed so intent upon eating here rather than finding somewhere more tasteful."

"Thought you might pick up on that." Sobering up, he continued, "Things aren't getting better, are they?"

 _The prognosis was rather demoralising,_ she wanted to say. It would be more fun to fence with him than to admit the truth outright. Alas, she did not know how much time they had until the girls would be back, and she owed it to him to be blunt. "No, they're not. They estimated that I have about a few days left."

"But you don't look that si – "

"It comes on suddenly in the end," she explained. "It's gradual until it isn't anymore; the shift could happen at any moment for any one of us. They just like to give estimations to give themselves a semblance of control over it."

"Were you ever going to tell us?" he asked with fond, albeit wretched, exasperation.

"Tomorrow," she replied, even as a wave of weakness hit again, worse than it had ever been. "I was going to tell you all tomorrow."

"Then I suppose we can deal with that tomorrow," he said, and she smiled at him in relief as she realised that he'd seen through her ploy like he always managed to do and was going to let her keep up her charade. He quickly cast a series of privacy charms before continuing with, "However, I have to ask you something. The dates surrounding my birth are rather interesting, as I am sure you are aware. I noticed it in fourth year but never particularly cared to know the answer. Now, however…"

She watched him unflinchingly. The question of how and when, or if, to broach this subject with Henry had always been a contentious issue for her. Part of her still loved her childhood sweetheart, but she had also grown to care deeply for her husband. Providing such answers seemed like it would disrespect both men; it would either undermine the authority her husband had built over the years or imply that having Tom Riddle as a father was something to be ashamed of. "Henry Thomas Nott," she said, savouring his name even as the pain gripped her again and her concentration started to fade, "does it even matter?"

"I suppose not," he conceded. Noticing her plight, he added quietly, "I love you. Should I call for a – ?"

"I love you too, but no. There's nothing they can do." She forced a smile for him for the last time.


End file.
